


Russia is a Riddle Wrapped in a Mystery Inside an Enigma.

by inknpaint



Category: Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Assassination, Gen, Murder, Wet-works
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-04 12:51:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inknpaint/pseuds/inknpaint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Red Room sends him on a mission, the Winter Soldier never questions it. He gets the job done, no matter what the cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Must Memorize Nine Numbers and Deny We Have a Soul

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like Bucky's time as an assassin is never used often enough in fics; I also feel like the fics that there are don't have nearly enough grit to them. 
> 
> Although each chapter of this work won't exactly be a continuation, I feel like each story belong together. They all cover his time as a soviet assassin. Each detailing one mission he was sent on. 
> 
> So be prepared, there's a fair amount of violence ahead.

Snow here was different than the snow he’d seen elsewhere. Beyond the quantity of snowfall, the very quality of the snow was different: the sound it made beneath his boots as he moved across the rooftops, the swirled flurries he left in his wake as he leaped the gap between buildings, the way it clung to his hair and melted on his clothing. Winter in Russia never truly receded; even when the days grew longer and the temperature increased, the bitterness of winter always seemed to linger.

The assassin’s breath rose in wisps as he crouched on the rooftop opposite of his final destination. His orders were to take out the traitor quickly and without conflict, but he doubted that would be possible.

Ivan Mikhailov was an overly paranoid politician. James had met him on a previous occasion when he had borrowed his services from Department X. The dossier had given him all the details on the man’s personal guard; the movements of his servants, family and himself, and the complete layout of his house. But he had to reassure himself that leaving without a gun was the right decision—despite knowing full well it wasn’t. The man undoubtedly suspected his betrayal had been deduced; he would be prepared for the government to strike back.

“Shit.”

Even through the snow, he could see Mikhailov’s security patrolling the grounds. The information he had been given told him to expect two guards at the front door, one at the back and two who walked the perimeter; James could make out two at the front, two at the back, two at the gate, at least three walking the perimeter and two men on the roof. There was no chance that this would end quietly.

Mikhailov’s wife and kids were out at the ballet tonight. They would be coming back to a massacre. Karpov wouldn’t be happy, but it was the only way the job was going to get done.

Now, to get himself a gun.

The Winter Soldier climbed down from his perch and hopped the target’s fence with ease. He kept himself hidden in a heavily shadowed corner of the garden, waiting for one of the patrolling guards to walk his way. It would only be a matter of time before he was spotted, so he would have to make every second of his anonymity count.

The first guard dropped quickly after James snapped his neck. The assassin slung the man’s rifle over his shoulder, secured his pistol under his belt, pocketed several magazines for each gun and took the guard’s com before moving to another spot of cover. A knife to the next patrolling guard’s throat and another snapped neck took care of the perimeter. The guards on the roof would notice the lack of patrol within minutes; James just had to wait.

“ _The perimeter has been breached. We have three down._ ” The words buzzed in his ear as the man who spoke them walked into the soldier’s view.

“Four—damn it—why didn’t I see that?”

He fired a clean headshot at the fourth, right as the guard turned his way. Recalling the layout and best positions for guards within the house, the back door was the best way to enter. James kept his back to the wall of the house; he had to keep out of the line of sight of the snipers on the roof that held precedence over his enemies on the ground. Luckily for him, the guards flocked to the sound of gunfire. He overpowered the guards quickly and made his way through the back door, his victims blood speckled on his clothing as he enter the house.

The interior of the house was full of potential weapons. He emptied the knife drawer on his first two victims; bashed his third and fourth over the head with the polished, bronze pans that hung above the stove; smashed the next through a glass dining table; finished him off by restricting his breathing with a heel to the throat, as James took out another with a round through the forehead; he dropped the empty magazine from his stolen pistol and loaded it with a new one before tucking it back under his belt and taking his stolen rifle in hand; he entered the entryway, ready for the barrage of gunfire that welcomed him—returning it without hesitation; as the air cleared, James dropped the rifle and headed up the stairs; he kept the fight restricted to close-quarters, hand-to-hand combat, the guards had no chance to react as he disarmed them, killed their comrades with friendly fire and executed each strike with deadly accuracy and speed; he finished off the last of his obstacles with a knife between the ribs and kicked down the politician’s bedroom door—blood dripping from his fingertips and clinging to his clothes.

It wasn’t the least bit surprising to see a prostitute bouncing on the man’s cock.

“ _No..._ ” Mikhailov breathed, scrambling to get the woman off of him.

James didn’t take pleasure in pulling the trigger and splattering the whore’s brains across her last client. She was only collateral damage; she was just another hurdle to jump before finishing his mission.

“ _NO!_ ”

He took his time to destroy the man’s face with the butt of his stolen pistol, anger mounting with each strike. James wasn’t mad at the Ivan. He couldn’t have cared less about what the man had done to deserve such a fate. The soldier was mad about the shitstorm he had been sent into, the massacre that he would be leaving behind and deeply buried guilt that was threatening to bubble to the surface as his target’s blood spattered on his face.

 

* * *

 

“ _ARE YOU FULLY AWARE OF WHAT YOU HAVE DONE?!_ ”

He could still hear his heart pounding in his ears. Still see the look on the man’s face as he pulled the trigger. The blood from his victims still clung to his face and clothes. He had to keep his hand clenched in a fist to keep it from shaking—had to force himself to take in deep breaths to keep his voice steady when he replied to his handler.

“ _Did I not complete my mission successfully? Ivan Mikhailov is dead._ ”

“ _The mess you have created for us? Does that not concern you?_ ”

“ _If you would’ve taken into account that Mikhailov was a paranoid bastard, perhaps you would’ve thought about sending in more than one agent. And **you** wouldn’t have created this mess,_ ” the soldier said cooly.

His handler gaped at him and struggled to say anything further on the subject under his intense glare.

“ _Am I dismissed?_ ”

The man nodded.

 

* * *

 

The water that swirling down the drain was saturated in red; he hadn’t realized how much blood he was covered in until he had stepped into the shower.

“Normally people take off their clothes before getting into the shower, don’t they?” Natalia tried to stop her gasp before James heard it but instead, “James?”

His name seemed to barely leave her tongue as she spoke it, hardly audible above the sound of running water.

“I’ll be out in a second, Nat.”

His mind felt like it had been slowly falling to piece; from the time he’d left the carnage in his wake to now as he could feel Natalia’s eyes looking over his profile, something was wrong, and the only thing he could think to blame was an aching guilt that weighed on his chest.

_They weren’t due back for another hour...they had done nothing wrong._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The chapter titles are taken from a song by Bright Eyes called, "At the Bottom of Everything." The title of this whole work is a quote said by Winston Churchill.)


	2. We Must Stare into a Crystal Ball and Only See the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier was compromised, and the Red Room was forced to put him into stasis between missions. But before they can fully trust that he will not deviate from their commands, the soldier is sent on one simple mission to test his loyalty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't really think this was strictly it own story, so I decided to tack it on as another chapter. It's just a short drabble. Excuse the spelling and grammatical errors. I'll come back and edit them later.

“Winter Soldier?”

The question broke through the haze around his senses instantly. His cold brown eyes opened, instantly focusing on the man who had spoken. They had just taken the apparatus off his head and were looking at him apprehensively as he sat. He didn’t take his vacant but firm gaze away from the man who had addressed him, the Winter Soldier.

“You are sure we will not lose control over him, doctor?”

“Positive, as long as you follow my recomended—”

“Of course,” he didn’t remove his gaze from the soldier either, but he could not mirror the cold calmness.

The soldier was trained to see through such guises; it was easy to discern why the man didn’t want to look away from him. He could see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, the slight twitch his mustache made, the slight shake in his hands and the deliberate calmness in his voice. It was a look many often had when they stood opposite him; he did not blame them. They knew what he was capable of doing.

“What is the last thing you remember, Soldier?”

“What do you mean?”

“What is the last thing you remember from before we woke you?”

The confusion barely registered on the soldier’s face, which only seemed to unnerve the man before him more. The man had obviously hoped that he would be pained by not remembering, though he did not know why.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Good, good,” his superior said, relaxing slightly. “We have a mission for you. Nothing too complicated.”

“Of course, sir.”

 

* * *

 

It didn’t bother him that he could not remember. He did not know what he was missing, and he did not have the emotions to attach anything to what was missing. What bothered him was the trivial errand they were sending him on. The target was an undercover British agent stationed in Moscow; he lived alone and was in no significant relationships. The agents had recently been suffering a bout of insomnia and was prescribed a sedative to help him sleep. The mission was straightforward. The soldier was to kill the double agent and make it look like an accident—juvenile and trivial.

The easiest way to hide is within plain sight. One must present themselves as belonging even when they do not. No one will question a person’s presents as long as they look and behave as if they belong. He walked into the apparent building, and as far as anyone who saw him believed, he belonged there and most likely lived there. His target had gone to the corner market to buy some food for his dinner. He had been watching the man, waiting for the right moment.

The dark apparent was small and slightly rundown but very neatly kept—not one thing was out of place. It was not his job to comb the place for the information his target had been passing other men would take care of that. For now all he needed were a few sleeping pills.

The easiest way to hide is to stay below the line of sight. It is best for one to wait just behind a doorway or corner, crouched down and close to the wall. A person’s natural instinct will bring them to overlook this position. Despite the man’s relax appearance, the soldier knew he was anything but. The man had a meticulous order to his apartment for a reason; one thing out of place and he would know that someone else had entered his home while he was away. But he had no time to notice the millimeter of movement his medication bottle had taken. As soon as he crossed into the kitchen and walked past the Winter Soldier, a handful of sedatives was forced into his mouth. The soldier held the struggling agents mouth closed and pinched his nose, forcing him to swallow. Once he has swallowed, the agent was unable to struggle against the strength of the soldier’s cybernetic arm as it restricted his airways.

When he could feel the man go limp in his arms, he lowered the agent carefully onto the floor—pushing aside the fallen bag of groceries. The man was not dead, not yet. This was not where he would die. The Winter Soldier picked up the bag of assorted produce and headed to the refrigerator. He was careful to dissect his victim’s habits to make sure the food was placed where its owner would have put it. Next he checked the cupboards for the man’s designated spot for collecting the used, paper grocery-bags and hoisted the man onto his shoulder before exiting the kitchen, flipping off the light switch.

Just as the man on his shoulder would’ve done, the soldier only turned on the bedside lamp for his next source of light in the bedroom and flipped on the light in the bathroom before placing the agent into the bathtub. He did not bother to undress the man before starting to fill the tub. When his victims breath began to slow and lengthen and the tub was full, the assassin give the his victim’s shoulders a slight push to submerge the agent’s head completely. He waited for the bubbled to stop rising from the man’s nose and mouth before exiting the apartment building as he had entered.

 

* * *

 

The double agent was found dead one week later by a disgruntled landlord. The official report classified the man’s death as suicide based on the high dosage of sleeping medication found within his stomach contents and the state in which his body was found. The British government did not come forward to claim the body.

They were pleased by his success but did not have another mission for him. He was to be put away until they need him again.

 

* * *

 

_There are a few moments, right before the stasis takes full effect when I can feel the bubbles within the liquid rise upwards and sense the world outside of my head. This short second is the only time it is just me and my thoughts. I can just make out the empty room between my heavy eyelids and the figure that steps out from the shadows. Her hair is a unique but familiar shade of red and her voice..._

_“J-James—no...what have they done to you?” her voice is choked by tears but the emotion on her face slips away from me before I can remember why I know it._

_She is the last thing I remember, the last thing I am able to hold on to._


	3. Set Fire to the Preacher, Who is Promising Us Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rainforest of Vietnam is thick with foliage and humidity. The Winter Soldier navigates through it alone, with nothing but his mission to keep his mind occupied and the frustration over the lack of any memories beyond being taken out of stasis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was trying to keep each chapter in chronological order, but I skipped ahead to Vietnam. I'll probably be skipping around for here on out.

This was the longest he had been allowed outside of his stasis tube. He did not know this for sure, but he could feel it. It was like being able to stand after spending days in a foxhole under heavy fire, wanting to run laps but not knowing if your legs can carry you. They told him nothing beyond his mission. He was sure they did not fully trust him. But he did not know why, or rather, he felt as if he did not remember. This frustrated him more than the thick forest he was navigating, the humidity, the rain. 

Days often passed between coming in contact with anyone; days where he was left with nothing to keep himself busy besides continuing to move forward to his next destination. The soldier would try to pull up something to keep his mind occupied, something besides repeating coordinates in his mind, reading maps, calculating wind speeds, making sure he guns would not jam. Nothing was ever there beyond waking up and being given his mission. 

If he tried hard enough, he could just make out the voice of someone; sometimes it was the color of this person's hair or her eyes. Other times he could hear a war around him, see the faint outline of man—a soldier, someone he felt like he should remember—as if the soldier was of some great importance to him.

He forced these thoughts from his mind as he got into position, hidden securely at the top of a hill. The assassin could see his targets at the foot of the hill, covered by the thick foliage, enough to go unnoticed by anyone who was not looking for them. But he was watching, adjusting his scope, slowing down everything, leaving everything behind him, till it was just him, his rifle and the four constant and steady clicks of the bolt—up and back, forward and down; the systematic killing of an entire U.S. Army platoon was reduced down to the mechanical mind of a weapon held by Russia's deadliest. 

By the time the last man dropped and the assassin's rifle spat out the empty bullet casing, the rain had picked up again. It would be at least a days time till he hit the next village. 

Sleep. He hardly needed it, or rather, he had slept enough already. Mostly, he just rested—settled himself in the canopy and closed his eyes momentarily. 

If he tried hard enough, he could remember. He’d known nothing but war. This was the first time he’d been allowed to be what he knew he was, a soldier. Even if he worked alone, he was still a soldier. 

He met his contact just outside the village. The soldier spoke in a language that had been programed into his mind, understanding every word he spoke and every word that was spoken to him. They handed him a flamethrower, and he burned down the village with them—enemy troops and all. The smell of burning flesh never really left you. As strong as the smell was, the memory of it was stronger—reinforced by the screams. He did not rest that night, did not close his eyes. Something made what he had just done linger in his mind. A child. She was no older than...the thought stopped there. He could not remember anymore than that, but the feeling stayed with him as he trekked through the forest to his next mission. 

The leaves of the forest were fat and smooth, as if they were made out of plastic. He hated them...the feel of them against his shoulders as he navigated through them. Maybe he was making himself be bothered by them, just for something to keep his mind occupied. He would be working with a platoon, giving them his steady and unforgiving aim. Part of him wanted this human contact, wanted to feel more at home with the group of men. But mostly he wanted to be left alone. He was not there to socialize.

He was unsure how this troop was able to hold their own before he joined them. Their formations were disjointed. The commanding officer barely held onto his command. The officer’s plans were by the book at best or non-existent at the worst. They wanted to praise the soldiers work, offer him some sort of reward for pulling the weight of the group. He did not talk to them much. He kept to himself. But that small part of him held onto every moment he spent in the platoon. 

Alone again. This was his final mission before they put him back in the stais tube, stowed him away till they needed him again. He did not not know why they treated him this way, and he felt compelled to believe he deserved the treatment. He was sure they programed this into him. The feeling was foreign.

The camp was medium in size. He scoped out the lay out of the camp from a distance, noting where their arms and ammunition was kept, where the brass met, kept tabs on the camps routine and habits. He was an assassin now—trained to do the work of an several men more efficiently, faster and without mistakes. This would be easy, but he knew he could only keep the camp quiet for so long. With the number of men within it, bodies would only go unnoticed for so long. He would get noticed, and that was when he was at his best.

He started with the brass, the ones who were more secluded and would not get noticed. The enlisted came next, he waited till they were alone before snapping their neck, slitting their throats or throwing his knives. When the first body was discovered, the camp went into action. But he was ready. He pulled the automatic rifle of his back and began to take them out in groups. This was where he operated best, right in the middle of a fire fight. His mind was clear and focused, unfazed by the noise, the bullets whizzing past him, plowing his way through soldier after soldier. This was when he knew he was a soldier, forged in war—when he felt most at home.

The fight ended when the dust cleared and he tossed a grenade into their ammunitions hold. He left the carnage in his wake, moving towards his extraction point.

**Author's Note:**

> (The chapter titles are taken from a song by Bright Eyes called, "At the Bottom of Everything." The title of this whole work is a quote said by Winston Churchill.)


End file.
